_Fitzgibbon_ (_to his men, who are drawn up across the road-- De Haren's command forming their right and left wings_).

Forward--ten paces.

[_Enter by companies the American force, who lay down their arms in front of the British officers and defile to the rear_.

_De Haren_ (_to Fitzgibbon_). A glorious day for you, Fitzgibbon; For this fair Canada, and British arms.

_Fitzgibbon_. Yes, thanks to a brave woman's glorious deed.

[_Exeunt_.

POEMS

A BALLAD OF 1812.

Now hush the martial trumpet's blare, And tune the softer lyre; Nor shrink lest gentler tones should lack The high, heroic fire:

For many a valiant deed is done, And great achievement wrought, Whose inspiration knows no source Save pure and holy thought.

Nor think some lofty pedestal, Proud-lifted towards the skies, The only plane where Worth can wrest From Fame her highest prize:

For many a nameless nook and lone, And many a tongueless hour, Sees deeds performed whose glories shame The pride of pomp and power.

Nor dream that to a n.o.ble deed It needs a n.o.ble name; Or that to mighty act achieved Must link a stalwart frame:

For strung by Duty's steady hand, And thrilled by Love's warm touch, Slight forms and simple names may serve At need, to avail for much.

Then lay the blaring trumpet by, And tune the softer lyre To songs of Woman's chivalry, Of Woman's patriot fire.

I.

O heard ye not of Queenston Heights,-- Of Brock who fighting fell,-- And of the Forty-ninth and York, Who 'venged their hero well?--

And of the gallant stand they made-- What prowess kept at bay The swelling foe, till Sheaffe appeared, And won the glorious day!

Yet heard ye how--ban of success-- Irresolution ruled, Till all our green peninsula And border-land, were schooled

To bear, nathless all frowningly, The yoke of alien power, And wait in patience, as they might, The dawn of happier hour.

Till Forty-mile, and Stony Creek, Revived our waning hopes, And round Fort-George a limit held The Yankees as with ropes.

Yet, as do cordons oft enclose The unwilling with the fain, Our people, by forced parole held, Could naught but own the rein.

Then heard ye how a little post.

Some twenty miles away, A check upon proud Dearborn's hopes, Was fixed upon for prey?

And how lest Britain's bull-dog pluck, Roused by their isolation, Should make these few, brave, lonely men, Fight as in desperation,

And prove a match for thrice their odds, They made them three times three, And thrice of that, with guns to boot, To insure a victory?

Then they would take the Night along --No mean ally with odds, As Stony Creek can testify: But then she marched with G.o.ds!--

Yet blame ye not the silent Night That she was forced to go, For oft have captives been compelled To serve the hated foe:

And oft with grave and quiet mien, And Samson-like intent, Have brought about such ends, as by Their lords were never meant.

Then blame ye not the dark-eyed Night, Of grave and silent mien; Her whisper 'twas that foiled the foe, And fired our patriot queen.

II.

"And why, my husband, why so pale?"

'Twas Laura Secord spoke; And when she heard his plaintive tale, Then all the patriot woke.

"Thou knowest how Fitzgibbon holds The post at Beaver Dams, And Dearborn frets, and fumes, and chafes, And calls us British shams:

"Because we will not, willing, give, To feed an alien foe, The substance, all too poor and spa.r.s.e, Our stinted fields may grow.

"So when the Night puts on her robes Of sad and sable hue, A host he sends, of shameful strength, To oust that n.o.ble few.

"And who shall warn Fitzgibbon? Who?

My weakness is my bale; At such an hour of pressing need, O that my aid should fail!

"And yet, my country, if my blood, Drawn from me drop by drop, Could save thee in this awful strait, 'Twere thine,'twere thine, to stop

"This ma.s.sacre, this horrid crime, To baulk this wicked plot!

My parole given!--by Heaven I could-- I Would--regard it not.

"But here am I, a cripple weak; Great Heaven! and must they fall Because I, wretched I alone, Know what will sure befall!"

"Calm thee, my husband, calm thee now.

Heaven ne'er points out a deed, But to the creature by whose means Its action is decreed:

"Thou, had'st thou not been sick and lame, Would'st ne'er have learned this plot, And had'st thou strength thou could'st not pa.s.s The lines, and not be shot.

"Wherefore,'tis plain, 'tis not to thee The careful task is given; 'Tis rather me; and I will go, Safe in the care of Heaven."